


unravel me

by timelxrd



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, PWP, Smut, im sensing a theme, self-consciousness, thasmin, thirteen is shy, yaz is there to help her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 16:44:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20392900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timelxrd/pseuds/timelxrd
Summary: thank u to @yasminkhxns for betaing this!!!





	unravel me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AmAgusSpas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmAgusSpas/gifts).

> thank u to @yasminkhxns for betaing this!!!

“Brilliant!” the Doctor exclaims gleefully into the quiet of the console room, the sound bouncing and twisting through curved gold and crystallised pillars. She straightens up, sliding her welding mask back to rest in blonde locks and focusing her determined gaze on the pedal beside her right foot. She lifts her toes, then applies pressure to the manufactured metal. To her triumph, the console draws forth a custard cream to the beaming Time Lord, who bites down with a pleased hum. She’d been procrastinating fixing the dispenser for a while now, and with each bite, she regrets waiting this long for her favourite sweet treat. 

Talking of sweet things, she hadn’t seen her girlfriend in a suspiciously long time — or was it only five minutes? Any length of time without Yaz’s grounding presence drags like decades, she finds, but either way, she’s curious to see what she’s gotten herself up to aboard the ship. She highly doubts it’s as exciting as custard creams, but she’s open to the possibility. 

Tucking her hands into her pockets, the Doctor hops, two steps at a time, up into the corridor of her ship. She heads to the kitchen first, craving a cup of tea. Boiling the kettle, she fetches two mugs. Two sugars, plenty of milk, she reminds herself as she pours one out for Yaz, too, secretly revelling in the prospect of praise from her girlfriend — last time she made her a cup of tea Yaz had told her approvingly that it was perfect, that she was _ so good,_ eliciting a shiver from the blonde even now. 

The Doctor follows her senses as she wanders through the ship in search of her counterpart, two mugs held tight in her hands. She’s grateful to find a streak of soft light drawn across golden floors from an open door to her left, padding quietly towards the doorway so as not to disturb whatever activity her girlfriend is occupied with. 

What she doesn’t expect is Yaz, earphones settled in her ears, filling in a sketch with watercolours, melodic hums joining the sound of a paintbrush on canvas. From what she can see over the curve of Yaz’s shoulder is a barren landscape, hills and mountains breaking up expanses of desert, and in the middle, a beacon of hope; the TARDIS. The Doctor realises, with a soft gasp, that she’s captured their first proper adventure at the tip of a pencil. 

“Desolation,” she murmurs, loud enough to break Yaz’s attention and turn her head towards the source. There’s a smudge of pencil across her cheek from where she’d supposedly pushed a piece of hair behind her ear, and the Doctor’s hearts flutter at the shy look gracing her features, as though she’s been caught organising a surprise party, or doing something she shouldn’t. 

“Doctor! I didn’t see you there, sorry,” Yaz admits apologetically, plucking her earphones from her ears and twisting in the weathered stool she’d found amongst the art supplies. “I had no idea you had a whole studio set up in here, I couldn’t resist trying it out.”

“Neither did I, actually. The TARDIS must really be taking a liking to you,” the Doctor steps into the room, settling a steaming mug on Yaz’s desk and hopping onto the one adjacent. She swings her legs as she admires her work, green eyes alight with surprise. “I didn’t know you were such a talented artist, Yaz. This is _ gorgeous_. How long have you been doing this for?” She’s genuinely intrigued, slipping from her perch if only to take a closer look at the intricate details. 

“Sketching, you mean? As soon as I could pick up a pencil, really. Painting is a recent thing, though, but I haven’t had much of a muse until recently,” _ until you, _she adds silently, but the Doctor is already blushing with the insinuation. 

There’s a section remaining which hasn’t been coloured, and when the Doctor shifts closer, her lips part on a soft gasp. Standing before the TARDIS, features ablaze with awe and adoration for her ship, is a faint sketch of the blonde. “Is that me?”

“Possibly,” Yaz answers coyly, smiling bashfully against the rim of her mug. She breathes a hum, aching wrist grateful for the pause in its ministrations. She catches her girlfriend’s eye when she blushes, seemingly in shock. 

“I’ve never been drawn before,” she admits so softly that Yaz can’t help pull her mug away, heartstrings plucked taught in her chest. The Doctor glances down at the hands curved around her mug, then to long, slim legs before she follows the boyish curves of her body up as far as she can. She looks back to the masterpiece before her, seemingly comparing the two. “Do I really look like that?”

Yaz slips from her perch, settling her mug down and stepping into the Doctor’s space. She seems a little lost, so she tucks a fingertip under her chin and tips it up to level their gazes. “How many times do I have to tell you that you’re beautiful, Doctor? I’ll keep saying it-- ” she presses a gentle kiss to her hairline, then her cheek, “-- until you believe me.” 

The Doctor softens, then, leaning into the tempting curve of Yaz’s top lip to delight in a gentle kiss. Yaz breathes a pleased sigh when their lips meet, tilting her head to give herself entirely over to the kiss her girlfriend offers. She settles a hand on her knee for leverage, aware of the soft hum the action elicits from the blonde. 

Yaz waits until the Doctor deepens the kiss, tentative brushes turning to sure motions of hands across clothing, of tongues along lips, seeking entrance, wanting more. Her breaths stutter when a firm palm settles at her lower back, drawing her closer. She gently nudges the Doctor’s knees apart in turn, settling between them as though returning home. 

The Doctor’s hearts are racing when Yaz pulls back to pant softly into her neck, where she then proceeds to brush kisses against her skin. Her knuckles are white when she grips at the corner of the desk, tipping her head back in an open invitation for more of her tender affection. “Yaz…”

“You’re beautiful, Doctor. Please, let me show you,” Yaz whispers against her skin, pausing to make her mark on the sensitive flesh at the base of her neck. She walks her fingertips along her prominent collarbone, then continues southward, greeting the Doctor’s sighs with delicate caresses of her chest, palming her breast through her overshirt. “And I don’t just mean your body,” she purrs, ducking her head to catch her earlobe between her teeth, breaths ghosting over receptive flesh. “You’re beautiful inside and out.”

Her words and caresses and lips and teeth are all so overwhelming that when Yaz slides her free hand from her knee towards the growing heat between her legs, then back, she shudders into her touch, hips jumping. “Show me, _ please_,”

Yaz takes her in — her coat half-off, hair slightly tousled, neck painted pink, knuckles of both hands white as she grasps at varnished wood — and swallows thickly, wetting her lips. “You really need to get out of those clothes,”

Once told, the Doctor never refuses, heat rushing to her cheeks when she shrugs off her coat, then both t-shirts. Down to a pale blue sports bra and her trousers, she meets Yaz’s gaze, daring. She lifts a hand, reaching up to replace the spot Yaz’s hands once were, palming and caressing over her breast through the thin fabric. “Everything?” her voice wobbles — whether from nerves or anticipation, she doesn’t know. 

Yaz is suitably flummoxed, fingers twitching against her clothed thighs as she watches her girlfriend, entranced. “Everything, please.”

“Well, when you ask so nicely,” the Doctor drawls, still unsure about her sudden confidence. She usually takes the more subservient role during intimacy, so the change is exciting but daunting. The wanton look gracing Yaz’s pupils spurs her on — frankly, she’s never felt so wanted in her lives, following the curve of Yaz’s lip when teeth sink into its form. She slips her bra over her head in a flourish, smoothing a cool palm up her stomach to her chest. She ghosts her thumb over her right breast, over the swelling bud there, and gasps in surprise at the temperature change. 

“Doctor…” Yaz all but whimpers, shifting closer, her heartbeat ringing through the Doctor’s ears. The heat between her thighs strengthens and burns like alcohol on a fire. She swallows thickly, fist closing in the material of her blue trousers. “Look at you. You’re so gorgeous. Are you imagining that’s me, touching you?”

Her words coax a whine from the blonde perched in front of her, legs spread to accommodate her hips, touching her own chest. She’s a work of art, and Yaz can’t wait to put pencil to paper and prove it. In the meantime, though, she steps back a touch, motioning to the trousers still snug around her waist. “Off, babe. Let me see you,” she whispers, reaching out to curl her fingers in the waistband before the Doctor stops her. 

Capturing her bottom lip between her teeth, a hand still toying with hardening buds, the Doctor undoes her fly and wriggles her hips free. Dusted with cacti, her grey underwear conveys her need clearly. Yaz gasps, nails digging into the Time Lord’s toned thigh — it’s the least she can do since her girlfriend apparently wants to put on a display for her. 

The Doctor is dizzy when she meets Yaz’s fiery gaze again, chest heaving and sensitive. She pinches her nipple at the same time as Yaz’s nails graze her thigh, another surge of scorching electricity shooting straight to her aching core. 

“These, too?” she hisses, hips jumping the minute she slips a hand between her legs, fingertips brushing against hot, damp material. Her lashes flutter closed and she drops her forehead to Yaz’s shoulder on instinct. 

“Those, too,” Yaz affirms, voice shaky and a note lower than usual. Desire runs through her nerves like a fatal virus, engulfing her form and rendering her desperate for release. She watches the Doctor as though she’s prey, momentarily wondering why she’d never encouraged her to do this any sooner. “Please, — I need to see you, Doctor, please.”

Not once during their relationship has the Doctor made her beg, but she now realises why the other woman enjoys it so much, a thrum of pleasure rolling down her spine at the control her position offers. She feels worshipped, needed, and shyly, a little beautiful. Trembling fingers hook around the waistband of her underwear, dragging them down her thighs and kicking them off with ease. 

Her cheeks warm as she’s presented in all her glory, dusky nipples pebbled and the bundle of nerves between her legs swollen and glossy. Suddenly, the confidence she had dissipates, and she glances back to the painting settled on the easel opposite with an apprehensive smile. 

Yaz notices her shift right away, lifting a hand to tip her chin up alike earlier. Her gaze bores into green irises, adoration and desire mounting up in the open gallery behind her pupils until the Doctor can see sense. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, Doctor,” she admits honestly, hands stilling on the other woman’s thighs, fingertips itching to explore. “Please — please allow me to show you?”

Reassured, and oh so loved, the Doctor sits back on her haunches, leaning onto her elbows with a coy blush to her features. It spreads down to her chest, framing petite breasts and serving to illuminate her soft curves. “Show me,” she words silently, then purses her lips, studying the dark-haired woman stood between her legs with intense trust. 

Yaz doesn’t know where to start first, so she follows the Doctor’s gaze. It settles, subconsciously, at the faint white lines dancing along her inner thighs like tiger stripes, puckering at the centre and filtering outwards until they dissipate into creamy skin. She breathes a gentle laugh, leaning in to brush her lips against the source of her girlfriend’s anxieties. “You’re so human sometimes, you know?” her words melt against naturally tinted skin, against the stretch marks causing so much tension in the blonde’s shoulders, so much fear in her eyes — fear of rejection? Over something as simple as blemished skin? Yaz’s heart flutters and tears at the response she earns from her kisses, her lips parting on a silent gasp. “You’re gorgeous, unique, but absolutely idiotic if you think I’m put off by — what, ‘imperfections’? I bet that’s what you call them. You wanna know what I call them?” She questions passionately, pressing another kiss to the sensitive skin there. “I call them character.”

The Doctor’s knuckles whiten from their new purchase against the table, her mind reeling, body responding in kind. All of the apprehension pulling her shoulders and muscles taught slowly transpires, leaving behind a newfound admiration for the woman she loves — yes, she’s figured that out by now, albeit with a little help from some old friends. Her train of thought collapses, however, when she feels the tip of Yaz’s tongue against her skin, taking her in, tasting her flesh, burning her up from the inside out. 

“Now, please, let me worship you,” Yaz pleads, already dropping to her knees for better access. She glances up for consent, and when the Doctor gives a swift, dizzy nod, she reaches up, hooking her arms under her thighs and grasping her hips. When she leans in, her tongue scrawls her name messily against her clit first, claiming the ripest, freshest of fruits as her own. 

The Time Lord beneath her trembles and moans, a shrill, desperate little noise, and chases her tongue with her hips. 

Twenty minutes later, after building up and up before being left lingering at the edge, again and again, the Doctor finally reaches her crescendo, hands tangled in Yaz’s hair while fireworks burst to life before her eyes. She crests with a cry, only Yaz’s name on her lips, in her thoughts, tattooed on her brain to never be forgotten. She thinks she might pass out, but gentle hands caress and dance along her skin like a cure for the most fatal of illnesses, coaxing her gradually back to the present. 

“Hey, babe?” Yaz murmurs tenderly, straightening up if only to ease her aching knees. She licks her lips, ridding the residue still clinging to their form, and smooths a hand along her side. 

“I’m here, I’m okay, I — that was the best orgasm of my whole lives, Yaz, I can’t feel anything. Am I dying? Have you accidentally sacrificed me to some kind of sex god?” the Time Lord rambles, curling her hands into a nearby sheet and dragging it over her form in a dramatic fashion. “Yaz, please, stop laughing, I’m _ dying.” _

Yaz can’t help the flurry of laughter which bubbles past her lips, tilting her head at the sight. When her girlfriend shifts onto her side to pout at her playfully, leaning on her elbow and crossing one leg over the other, sheets pooled at her hips, she gasps. “Wait! Stay exactly like that. Don’t move,” she commands, plucking a pencil from the nearest case and reaching for a fresh canvas. “I’m going to draw you now if that’s okay? You think you can stay still for long enough?”

The blonde in question tilts her head, surprise etching her lips into a silent ‘o’. “You’re — you’re going to draw me?” she repeats, glancing down at her bare form. “But I’m — Yaz, I don’t have any clothes on,” she continues, though she’s keeping as still as possible when she hears graphite start its new quest against bound cotton. 

“That’ll make it all the more easy to give you your reward in the end,” Yaz drawls smoothly, outlining the swell of her breasts, tongue sneaking past her lips in a look of pure concentration. 

A shiver rolls down the Doctor’s spine, and until all lines are joined and every feature is detailed, she doesn’t move an inch.   
  
_ For an activity more exciting than custard creams, _ she ponders sometime later, when all she can feel and breathe and taste is Yasmin Khan. _ I think this wins. _

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!!!


End file.
